


Pogrebin’s on Parole

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Albus-centric, Comfort, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Stockings, Wizarding Subscription Boxes, fashion - Freeform, music festivals, music snobbery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 08:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14352168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: There was no point being at a pub that he didn’t like if there was no good company, and it was verging on ten minutes since Scorpius went to get a refill and started chatting instead. Albus was going to drink his firewhiskey, say goodbye to Scorpius, and then walk back to their flat.He might throw on the newPungous Onionsvinyl he found in the three-for-two stall down in Lodgeick Alley, or he might fall face-first onto their cheap, second-hand leather sofa that reminded him of the Slytherin Common Room and wait for Scorpius to come home.“Mind if I sit here?”





	Pogrebin’s on Parole

**Author's Note:**

> This came about because I have always been more drawn to clothes marketed for men, rather than women. Boxers and hoodies and suits, oh my god, suits, and men’s jeans and tops and shirts. It’s all just much more comfortable to me and feels right, and I like the colours and the fit. I know lots of people use clothes as an expression of gender, which is awesome, but I also thought it could be an expression of plain old comfort, too? And I also thought that people probably either view men dressing up in ‘women’s clothes’ as a statement, or as something sexual, and I figured it didn’t have to be either of those things. It could just be that a guy prefers the way crop tops and stockings look and feel, and it shouldn’t be any different than a woman wearing boxers, so. So! I thought I’d write! As you do.

Albus disliked party games. There wasn’t much to like, really, between the stench of alcohol and the noisy laughter and the blatant humiliation. He disliked them, and so he didn’t play when the Slytherin Quidditch Team won, or when exams trundled to an end, or when the new term crept up on them, because there wasn’t a person on earth who could make Albus socialise when if didn’t want to. 

But in the Slytherin Common Room, it wasn’t as simple as not playing. There was a punishment for not playing, for sitting on the sofa with his head in a book about Muggle music, and it was never anything harmful, but it always involved wearing something embarrassing for the rest of the evening. Last time it was Davy’s sweaty Quidditch socks, and the time before that it was a Gryffindor scarf - the ultimate embarrassment. 

This time, Albus watched with trepidation as Pandorea Parkinson dug around in her pocket and produced a pair of flimsy black stockings. She held them up to a chorus of cheers, and Albus balked.

“Why do you even have those in your pocket?” he asked, wrinkling his nose. Pandorea smiled stickily at him, waving the stockings around.

“I always come prepared, Potter. I even charmed them so they’ll fit you.”

Albus snorted. There was an expectant silence in which Albus fidgeted nervously, and then Callum Ridge took pity on him. 

“You don't have to, mate. It’s just a joke.”

Pandorea pouted, and Albus knew nobody was forcing him, and that nobody would truly mind if he didn’t do it, but he still had this feeling that he would go down in their respects if he declined. 

Albus hesitated. It was one thing to wear a silly scarf or a hat, and it was quite another thing to wear stockings, although he wasn’t sure why. There was just something very different about it, in his mind. Nevertheless, he slipped off the sofa eventually, catching Scorpius’s wide-eyed gaze from where he was sat in the circle of students, huddled on the rug by the fire. Scorpius didn’t actually enjoy the games that much either, when it came to his turn, but he liked the chatter and being involved, so he stuck it out. Albus was beginning to wish that he’d stuck it out too, but he wasn’t backing down now.

Albus snatched the stockings out of Pandorea’s raised hand and stalked towards the closet at the end of the common room, sandwiched between a leather sofa and a bookshelf. He wedged himself inside amongst the spare inkwells, lost cloaks and piles of parchment, and slammed the door shut, cutting off the sound of jeers from the circle of idiots he sometimes called his friends - Scorpius not included, both because he wasn’t cheering, and because Albus always called him his best friend. 

He stood and breathed for a moment, clutching the stockings in his fist. He really didn’t want to put them on. He was going to, but he didn’t want to. Nobody was forcing him to do it, and he could walk out of here if he wanted to, but it was the principle of the thing. Potter’s always had been stubborn creatures. 

It was dark in the cupboard, so he lit his wand with a whispered spell and clutched it between his teeth while he worked.

It took some fumbling to pull the stockings up each leg. He had to roll his pyjama pants up really high, discard his green, holey socks, and then slide the stockings on over his pointed toes. He got them caught a few times, and they were a little tight, but then they snapped into place and the charm kicked into action, and his eyebrows flew up as they grew remarkably comfortable. They came to a stop in the middle of each thigh, a band of black lace marking the end.

Albus swallowed and shifted his wand up higher, so the light cast a further glow. There was no mirror, but he didn’t need one to see the way his skin peeked through the sheer, black material. It felt slinky and strange, but also kind of… nice.

Really nice. His legs felt slimmer, more supple, and something about the material only highlighted the curve of his calves. He brushed a hand from his ankle bone up to his knee before he could stop himself, curious. It would probably feel even better if he shaved his legs, he thought, but he quickly nipped that thought in the bud.

There was a bang on the door, and Albus dropped his wand out of shock. He knelt down to grab it, hands scrabbling against the ground, and then he straightened up hurriedly, rolling down his pyjama bottoms so that only his stocking-clad feet were visible.

“Alright, alright,” he yelled, and he opened the door to a furious onslaught of whistles and yells.

Pandorea stood with her arms folded over her chest, eyebrow cocked. “Show us then, Potter. Or have you chickened out?”

He rolled his eyes and lifted a foot pointedly, steadfastly refusing to show off the rest of it. Another deafening set of whistles pierced his eardrums, and he felt his cheeks grow warm. Pandora nodded, weirdly impressed despite the fact that it was just stockings, and then she stepped aside so that Albus could slump back on the sofa, tucking his wand behind his ear. Scorpius caught his eye before Albus could get stuck into his book, and he lost his breath at the dull flush on Scorpius’s pale cheeks. Scorpius glanced down at Albus’s legs, and then looked quickly away as the game begun.

Albus opened his book and rubbed his legs together surreptitiously. He didn’t get more than one sentence into the book all night.

*

The thing with the stockings didn’t happen again for a while. Albus was always honest with himself, deep down, even if he didn’t usually share those truths with anybody but himself. And if he was honest now, then Albus would say that he quite liked the experience, and his curiosity only grew after he gave the stockings back.

There was nothing he could do about it, though. There were study sessions and exams and leaving celebrations, and the new flat he planned to rent with Scorpius in Diagon Alley to worry about. The thing with the stockings got pushed to the back of his mind, and he didn’t think about it again until about two months after he finished Hogwarts. 

He was trailing behind Lily in a Muggle clothing store, grunting at the selection of blouses and t-shirts thrown over her arm and dodging lots of busy Muggles with overloaded prams, when he spotted a pack of stockings that looked remarkably similar to the ones he wore that night.

He hovered for a moment beside the stand. He tucked his hands up inside his sleeves and brought it to his mouth, so he could chew nervously on the thick, faded fabric. It seemed to take ages for Lily to duck down and examine the price tag on a peach suede jacket, and when she did, he snatched up two pairs of stockings in different sizes.

Pandora had used a spell to make the stockings fit whoever wore them, but Albus didn’t particularly want to send her an owl asking for the spell. He could always research it later, but for now, two different sizes was probably his safest bet. 

Buying them without being seen was an exercise in stealth, and hiding his purchases from Lily was even trickier, but he eventually got back to his flat with two packets of stockings tucked inside a plastic bag. He knew Lily wouldn’t mind, but she was famously nosy, and Albus didn’t feel like discussing it yet. 

Scorpius was in the kitchen when he got home, humming as he watched smooth, emerald liquid simmer in a cauldron. Albus had asked him a thousand times not to put his potions ingredients in the pantry or the cupboards, but Scorpius kept insisting that there was no better place for them. 

“That you?” Scorpius called, as Albus kicked his shoes under the chair by the front door. His plastic bag felt noisy and conspicuous, rustling in his hands as he headed for his bedroom. 

“It’s a good job it is me and not a burglar,” Albus said, rolling his eyes as he passed the kitchen door. “You’re supposed to lock the door, Scorpius.”

“We’re wizards, Albus,” Scorpius sang. “They can always unlock it, and I can always fight them off.” 

Albus scoffed as he ducked into his room. The stockings went in his top drawer, under several mismatched socks and an old _Omnioculla_ t-shirt, a band that he used to listen to exclusively before he found a few other favourites. 

And then he fidgeted and cursed under his breath, before getting out his wand and charming the packets to look like boxes of batteries. Merlin knows why he would be keeping batteries in his drawer, under the socks, but it was better than anyone finding the stockings before he was ready. 

There wasn’t, he reminded himself, anything wrong with wearing stockings. He could wear a dress if he wanted to and nobody would be allowed to say anything. They probably would, but Albus knew a fair few curses that he could be persuaded to part with just for that occasion. 

It was just so new, and he didn’t know why he liked it, and he didn’t want to taint anything with other people’s opinions. 

Nodding to himself, Albus shut the drawer with a small snap, and turned in time to see Scorpius skid to a stop in front of his open bedroom door. His socks were purple today, covered in flashing patterns, and he was wearing chino shorts despite the foul weather. Albus grimaced at his blue cardigan, but decided not to say anything. 

“I’m going down to that pub that opened a little while ago,” Scorpius said, standing on tiptoe and bouncing to peer over Albus’s shoulder, trying to glimpse his purchases without actually invading his space. It was stupid, because Scorpius spent half of his life in Albus’s room, lounging on his bed or stealing his beanbag or doodling at his desk. They often spent the night sharing the same pillow, legs tangled together, and yet Albus found himself appreciating the respect all the same. He was being a little odd, and Scorpius was observant, so he must have noticed, but he hadn’t said anything yet. 

“What happened to your potion?” Albus asked, leaning down to snag a mostly clean hoodie off the floor. He swapped jumpers, throwing the sweaty one towards the basket near the door and missing, and then strolled towards Scorpius. 

“Oh, that blew up,” Scorpius said cheerfully. “Kind of fascinating, actually, because it didn’t make a sound when it exploded. I might have to do some more experiments. Not now, though. Pub?”

Internally, Albus groaned. He didn’t want to spend the evening sat in a cloud of cigar smoke and alcohol fumes, but Scorpius seemed antsy and eager, and Albus wasn’t about to let him go out alone. 

Scorpius clasped his hands together and put on a pleading expression. 

Albus’s lip twitched, but he shoved down a proper smile. “Yeah, fine. But you’re buying.”

*

_Quill and Ink_ was never quiet or peaceful. A relatively new pub, it usually featured up to sixty patrons at any given time, all crammed into oak chairs around scrubbed tables. An oily stage housed an enlarged wireless that played glitzy, painfully modern music, rather than real live bands. The shriek of singing witches mixed with the hubbub of drunk wizards and bartering goblins and the whispers of cautious House-Elves, enjoying their recently allotted holiday time, was enough to curdle anyone’s butterbeer. 

Pubs in general weren’t Albus’s thing, but pubs like these were the ones that he utterly despised. 

None of that quite explained why Albus was sat at a table near the window, nursing a firewhiskey and grimacing down at a peeling coaster. It was a Friday night, so the place was packed, and Scorpius could be seen through the clamorous crowd, just a tall blonde head of hair, chatting up the bartender. It was likely that Scorpius didn’t know he was chatting up the bartender, a bejewelled, pierced man with a shaved head and a cunning smile. He probably just got caught up in conversation and stayed to ramble on about the injustice of Magical Creature Trafficking, or the new Kareena Kiltkit book series, which was his latest hyperfixation. 

But the way he was leaning and the excited lilt to his smile was all very suggestive, in Albus’s opinion, and the bartender seemed to think so too, from the way he was leaning and smiling in return. 

What, exactly, did the bartender have that Albus didn’t? Sure, he had a shaved head, and Albus had dark hair that swooped all over the place and flopped over his eyes when he woke up in the morning, but Scorpius liked that style. In any case, Albus didn’t think he could pull off a shaved head. As for the jewels, Albus was remarkably bare and un-shiny, dressed in tattered, ripped jeans, with empty knuckles and no necklaces to speak of. He kind of liked the idea of getting a piercing, like the ones decorating the bartender’s ears, but that seemed like something he should wait to do. 

It didn’t matter how many times he woke up in the morning to his own flat and his temporary job in the Apothecary up the street, he still found it hard to believe that he was an adult that could actually do things, if he wanted to. Without parental permission. 

Albus propped his chin up and stared at the bar, through a gap in a kissing couples’ tangled elbows. The bartender had a lot that Albus didn’t have, if Albus was honest. The bartender had tattoos on his neck and one of those smiles that seemed to eat you up, and more importantly, he had Scorpius’s attention. 

With a huff, Albus leaned back on his chair until it balanced on two thin legs. The spell that kept him balanced there was easy to cast by now, and had taken him two months to learn. It was maybe a waste of his time, but it was worth it for the way the smug look fell out of adults’ eyes when they sent Toppling Spells at his chair to teach him a lesson, to no avail. 

There was no point being at a pub that he didn’t like if there was no good company, and it was verging on ten minutes since Scorpius went to get a refill and started chatting instead. He was going to drink his firewhiskey, say goodbye to Scorpius, and then walk back to their flat. He might throw on the new _Pungous Onions_ vinyl he found in the three-for-two stall down in Lodgeick Alley, or he might fall face-first onto their cheap, second-hand leather sofa that reminded him of the Slytherin Common Room and wait for Scorpius to come home. They hadn’t crossed the whole bringing-someone-back-for-the-night thing yet, so Albus just had to hope that Scorpius came back alone. 

“You mind if I sit here?”

Albus glanced up, bottle of firewhiskey resting on his bottom lip. There was a man leaning over him, tall and slim, dressed in shimmery silver robes that were all the rage these days. There was a new store just down the street that sold all sorts of metallic robes, and this man had obviously been first in line, because the robes were perfectly cut to show off his lean build and the curve of his legs. Albus took it all in with slightly wide eyes, and then shook his head. 

“No, sure. Go ahead.”

“Thanks, mate. I’m Heath.”

He did not look like a Heath, but Albus didn’t know what a Heath was supposed to look like, so he just shrugged and said, “Albus.”

Heath flashed him a grin. He put his own bottle of amber liquid down on the greasy table and tucked his wand behind his ear. Albus didn’t really want him to sit down, in Scorpius’s seat, but he was too awkward to say anything. He turned his head instead, and pretended to watch the crowd. 

“Waiting for someone?” Heath asked. 

Albus shot him a confused look. Heath was either not from Britain, or he’d just come back for a holiday and he’d yet to settle back into old mannerisms, because one didn’t just strike up conversations with people in public places unless someone was drunk or dying. 

Heath laughed at the look on Albus’s face, and he glowered instead. 

“Just making conversation.”

Al chewed this over, and then shrugged. “Yeah, my… my friend. He’s just getting a drink.”

He pointed vaguely. Heath followed his wavering finger and one eyebrow flung itself at his hairline. 

“The blonde guy? Or the bartender with too many piercings?” 

“It is a lot, isn’t it?” Albus said, viciously pleased to have someone on his side. “Like, an unnecessary amount. I haven’t met anyone yet who can pull them off.” 

“I reckon you could,” Heath said, sizing him up. Albus shut his mouth, a little at a loss for words. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Heath said, smiling easily. He seemed like the relaxed, easy-going type. “They’d look really good.” 

A hand fell on Albus’s shoulder before he could respond, and he craned his neck to find Scorpius standing behind him, staring at Heath intently. 

“Ready to go?” Scorpius asked. Albus blinked at him, furrowing his brow, and then slipped off his chair. 

“So soon?” Heath asked, and Scorpius’s hand tightened before he let go entirely. 

“You can stay if you like, obviously,” Scorpius said, biting his lip. “I just thought I’d head home.” 

“No, I’ll come with you,” Albus said, with a quick smile, the one that was just for Scorpius. He turned and waved to Heath, who looked disappointed, but tipped his bottle happily enough in farewell. 

They weaves their way through the pub, Scorpius sticking awfully close, and Albus shrugged on his jacket before pushing open the door. 

“Who was that man?” Scorpius asked, as they stepped out into the street. It was cold and starting to drizzle, so Scorpius performed a little flick with his wand until an umbrella popped out of the end, and then held it up above them both. Albus had to huddle close to stand beneath it, but he didn’t mind. He just linked their elbows together and felt warm down to his toes. 

“Al?” 

“I don’t know. Just some guy who wanted to sit by me.” Albus shrugged. He wanted to ask about the bartender, but Scorpius was staring ahead with a weirdly sullen expression, and he found he didn’t want to hear the answer anyway. He cast about for a different topic as they continued up the street, footsteps echoing off the damp, lamp lit cobblestones. The rain pounded down, growing heavier by the second, and Albus eventually stumbled upon a subject. 

“Hey,” Albus said, nudging Scorpius gently. “D’you think I’d look any good with a piercing?” 

The umbrella flickered and died, and they both yelped in horror as the freezing rain soaked them instantly. Albus shivered, and turned to Scorpius, mouth open, but his indignation died at the wide-eyed look on his face. 

“Sorry,” Scorpius uttered, as water ran down his face and jacket. “Yuh - Yeah. It’d look good. I mean, if you wanted it. Not bad. C’mon, before we catch a cold.” 

He was off before Albus could do more than grin. Albus followed along sedately, hands shoved in his pockets and a spring in his step. He was soaked, he stank of alcohol, and he had stockings disguised as batteries in his sock drawer. 

All in all, he thought, as he watched Scorpius’s flustered figure zip up the street, it was shaping up to be a pretty good night.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the name of a made-up Wizarding band that Albus loves, and it will come up. 
> 
> Next up: Wizarding Music Festivals And Wizarding Subscription Boxes!


End file.
